


Pinky Promise

by sedirktive (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Art Student Dave, Developing Relationship, Later mentions of John/Rose, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Med Student John, Rating May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:45:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sedirktive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We’re always gonna be together, right?”</p>
<p>It was a promise you made to each other when you were young, but just how far does “together” really go?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Fireflies in Washington

**Author's Note:**

> ah they are young and not in love yet

Up until this week, you had never gone camping.

The closest you’d ever even gotten to a tree before visiting your best bro in Washington was the urban jungle that is downtown Houston.

You were trying to convince John that all Texans believed that foliage was imaginary and a ploy set up by them goddamn Democrats to destroy The True Republic.

Not that he actually ever believed you. He knows you better than that.

To be honest, this whole hanging around in a shoddy old tent in John’s backyard at night probably wouldn’t qualify as an actual excursion for the rugged and wily explorer. You have yet to sport any sort of stubble or eat a poisonous reptile yet.

You have, however, successfully made something remotely like a campfire (small, but passable) in the fire pit to gut and roast deadly white marshmallows over. And hey, you got John to shut up and admit that you can make one hell of a s’more.

Thanks, Bear Grylls.

Imperceptibly shallow and insincere griping aside, you’ve made enough memories this week to fill a good part of your life-flashing-before-your-eyes montage.

In the past 24 hours alone, you have caught a fish, fallen into a river, lost a fish, pulled your laughing best friend into a river, and skinny dipped. Basically in that order. You’re pretty sure John’s old man has it on camera somewhere. (Despite what you originally thought, Mr. Dr. Sir Dadbert is pretty cool and not horribly consumed with by an unhealthy obsession with baking.)

You’re still drying your skinny, 13 year-old ass out a few hours later, curled up on an air mattress next to John and making shadow puppets on the tent wall with chocolate and cheese powder-stained fingers.

The electric lantern (“Sorry boys. There aren’t any fireflies in Washington to bottle up and keep you company, so you’ll have to deal with this instead.”) glows warmly above you and the sleeping bags have taken up a second job as improvised blankets draped over your gangly legs. They’re doing a shoddy job of it too because your little piggies are going wee wee wee out in the chilly night air while John’s are still warm and toasty.

Tall person problems.

“Hey, John,” you say as your shadow dragon moves to devour John’s hand llama.

“Yeah, Dave?” He raises his arms a little closer to the lantern so that his llama grows to epic proportions, distorting all over the tent canvas.

“I’m going home tomorrow.” It’s a grim reality, but summer vacation doesn’t last forever.

John pauses mid-battle, his monstrous godzillama faltering. “I know. I’m going to miss you. A lot.”

“We’re still gonna be best friends after I go back to Texas, right?” You know it’s a dumb question, but you get a little scared thinking that John might leave you behind after you both start middle school. He’s mister congeniality, all overbite and dork, and you don’t want to lose him to people who will get the chance to see him every day, unlike you.

“No, Dave. I’m going to leave you behind forever and sell those pictures that my dad took of you to porn sites,” he rolls his eyes, and you can hear the laughter in his voice.

“Hey. I deserve a cut of the money, at least.” You punch him on the shoulder and both of you dissolve into laughter for a minute. “No, but really, John. We’re always gonna be together, right?” 

“Yeah, Dave. You’re my best friend in the whole word and you always will be. We will talk on Pesterchum every day.”

It makes you feel good to hear that. “Even after you become a movie-writing, ghost-busting Surgeon General in space?”

“Even after we’re old and wrinkly like giant walking prunes and you adopt twenty cats.”

“Awesome.” After a few moments of your dragon being horrifically devoured in various r-rated ways by a furry shadow herbivore, you say ,“Pinky promise?”

John does his weird snort-laugh thing that means he’s extra-amused. “Oh my god, Dave. That’s so lame. You’re so lame.” He puts some emphasis on the “so” for extra effect.

“Shut up, man. Just sign your soul over to me. Pinky promise?” You hold out your pinky and he eyes it with amusement lighting his eyes.

“Okay, okay. Pinky promise.” He grins and hooks his little finger in yours and the lantern throws the interlocked shadows against the tent.


	2. Agendas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes, there is nothing more satisfying than a calendar

Chest heaving, you let out a heavy sigh of crisp morning air. Your blood is still warm from your morning run and you wipe some sweat on your sleeve. 

The room is still dark?

Of course it’s still dark.

You cross the room, only stumble over something thrown carelessly on the floor and draw open the heavy curtains with a sweep of your arm.

Early morning light floods in and paints the living room furniture in vibrance.

You lean over and pick up the pair of shoes that almost tripped you up a second ago, and use them to swat the lump of blankets still slumbering on the couch. “Dave,” you say loudly. “Rise and shine, buddy.”

The pile that is your roommate/best friend makes a quiet gurgling sound - that means he’s slightly conscious and articulate, at the very least.

“Oatmeal in ten,” you promise, smiling at the tuft of blonde hair peeking out from under the blanket as Dave shifts and turns.

Your watch says it’s exactly 8:04; right on time. Ever since you and Dave became college roommates (after years of dreaming and planning), you found yourself falling easily into an agenda.

Wake up, morning run, return, poke Dave awake, make him some breakfast with enough nutritional value to pass for most of the day until you drag him out of his studio for dinner, shower, get dressed, and go.

It’s very familiar.

It never gets old.

Something about living with a single parent your whole life made it surprisingly easy for you to get in touch with what some people call your “inner mother hen.” You are the enforcer of laundry days. You drag the garbage out to the trash chute down the hall.

The fact that Dave lived the bachelor life from ages zero and up just made it all the easier for you to take care of him.

He’s kind of like a baby.

Not that he’d ever forgive you if you told him you were coddling him on purpose.

It only makes sense that you keep a big calendar by the kitchen door with your schedule (biochem at 9:30, anatomy at 11, lunch at 1:30, etc) and Dave’s schedule (studio time at 9:30, anatomy at 11, lunch at 1:30, studio time at 2, art history at 5, etc.) scrawled in blue or red ink. Blue for you, and red for Dave, obviously.

You pause scanning over the calendar.

 _good morning my most darling egbert i hope the sun shines brightly for you and your dork face_

A stray snort escapes you and you shake your head. Over the years, you’ve learned to appreciate his precious irony a little better. Just a little.

Was this done in red paint? Jeez, Dave.

8:06. Better get that oatmeal going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: dave is an art student and john is tackling pre-med i think i made that known in the tags but


	3. Him

John always smells of freshly-cut grass.

You like that about him, his middle-class mowed lawn musk. You can always tell when he’s around because your nose says spring just came waltzing through the door. It’s a very homey and white picket fence and camping-trip-in-your-backyard smell.

Sometimes you wonder if he bathes in the dirt every morning.

No. That’d be counterintuitive. You can’t bathe in dirt.

Maybe he uses grass-scented shampoo.

Is grass-scented shampoo a thing?

Probably.

It’s pretty weird that you noticed the way he smells. Usually, you can’t be trusted to notice anything at all.

Did you do that math assignment last night? Uh.

What’d you have for breakfast? Uh.

Are you wearing underwear today? Uh.

Admittedly, it gets in the way of your daily life because you always overlook things unless they’re right in front of you or more important than your jumbled mess of thoughts.

You used to keep a planner, but you’re not sure what happened to it. Nowadays, you mostly write your reminders on your body.

You get a lot of funny looks from people that don’t know you when you have things like a grocery list (eggs, milk, toilet paper) or less-than-impressive life mottos like “brush your teeth” temporarily inked on your forearms.

Anyways, you smell John come back well after midnight (1:47 am, your internal clock says). 

You pause mid-sketch, tucking your pencil behind your ear with the other three. “Your curfew is 10 pm, young lady. Do you know how much your father and I have worried?”

“It’s nice to see you too, Dave.” He yawns and tosses his jacket on the floor. “Late-night drawing?”

He wanders over in all his grassy-smelly-ness to peer at your work in progress, a motion you would’ve immediately closed down on anyone else for, but it’s John and you’re used to it.

“Had a dream.” You add a decisive smudge with your thumb. “It wouldn’t go away. It was practically begging me to draw it like one of my French girls. I told it I didn’t have any French girls and then it kept me awake another two hours.”

John laughs, not loudly, but not soft either. “Do you need me to sleep with you?”

“Are you prepared to take responsibility?” You toss the sketch aside and throw an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close.

It’s not weird. You and John shared a bed since you were small and pre-pubescent. You wouldn’t make on your best friend, anyways. Your very not single best friend, by the way. Besides, on the richter scale of gay, you’re only a 6.5. You’re a gayologist and this is science.

“I’m the only responsible person in this room, Dave.” He playfully pushes you away, but not before you check his sleep levels.

It worries you a little that he does all these late-night intern shifts. Not that you’d tell him that directly. He’d just shake his head and try to hide it from you. You must have spent a fortune on purses, John, because those bags under your eyes are damn impressive.”

“The Macy’s sales lady loved me.”

The two of you walk the short distance to the bedroom, listening to the padding of your feet on the wood floor.

“You need to relax a little,” you say as you jump in the bed. The mattress bends and flexes unhappily under you.

“I’m very relaxed, thank you very much. Besides, I don’t think I have much free time in my schedule.”

“I’ll take you out for food and laser tag.”

“I’ll see if I can fit you in.”

You snort and kick him with your cold feet. “You asshole.”

He laughs and turns over. “Goodnight, Dave.”

You fall asleep to the smell of your first camping trip.

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: there are actually no fireflies in washington  
> as someone who lives in washington i approve this message


End file.
